


What Another Heaven

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Characters - Well-handled emotions, Fourth Age, Plot - Bittersweet, Romance, Writing - Mythic/Poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2003-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3778920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief Aragorn/Eowyn ramblage. 4th Age. Mild angst, if any.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ride Off

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Ride, ride. They all seemed to be riding somewhere these days, and leaving women behind. She envied the horses, in their fine chestnut, roan, white, speckled and glistening finery, as they bore their masters to the ends of the world. She would be worth more as a horse, as a beast on four legs for then at least she would be allowed past the walls. Funny, those walls. They were not even stone, Edoras was merely wood and gold lining. And yet she was bound here as if it was the largest cage. Sometimes when she paced in her chamber and gazed out to the darkness, or the brilliant moonshine on the peaks painted with snow, she could feel herself on a horse. The rhythmic hooves and the bunching thighs, the free hair in the cold, or the golden sun on the golden grasses.

But now he thought so too. He was like all the others, and she had so hoped he would be different. Because in her heart of hearts, she thought she was destined to be special. To finally rise above her bars in a burst of glory, to shatter and have her memory float down to history, to find love in the arms of the most glorious. She saw him, and she could not help her heart from hoping. And yet he loved one better, one more worthy. His eyes could never give her that window she desired, his loving voice that lilt. So she was determined to outride them all. The scorn, the destiny that would leave her in a room with staring eyes or uncaring heart. Let them be all left behind in the dust, for she would ride to the glory and the world’s ending, she would slay the bars themselves, and those who did not even try to stop her but assumed it was her place to halt, well they would have to respect her ride at last.


	2. Ride To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief Aragorn/Eowyn ramblage. 4th Age. Mild angst, if any.

“Ride, ride. Come on, Eldarion, ride! That’s, it, keep the heels down and up, down, up, down.” Eldarion obediently trotted in a circle in the green pasture, his small form beating in time to the clip clop of the pony. Then his instructor jogged up to the horse and rider, setting a hand on the reins to slow them down. She grinned up at the sweating boy, and together they walked to the long stone building that housed the stables.

”Aunt Eowyn, can I please have another?”

“Since you had such an excellent lesson today, of course you may, El”. She passed him another sweet pastry as the smell of honeysuckle rose up in the late afternoon and they stared out from the balcony to the craggy gorse and rose bushes which framed their view of Ithilien. It had been a busy day for adopted aunt and nephew. Riding, examining fortifications, and a lesson in Rohirrim had both somewhat tired. Then his little form leapt up, despite its weariness and pointed. “Look! Uncle Faramir and my father are coming!”

Eowyn stood up in her blue tunic and her eyes crinkled with the joy of her smile. She could see the two men riding towards her in compatible tandem, and it was not long before their clatter was heard in the courtyard.  
“Hello, love,” spoke the Prince. “Have you been taking good care of Eldarion? I hope you have not tired him completely out again?” he spoke as he caressed her side.

“El takes a great deal to tire,” laughed the Princess of Ithilien. “And how do you do, King? All is well in our lands, I presume?”

“Quite, my Lady,” and with exaggerated movements borne of time together he reached down to mock-kiss her hand.

“Come on, come on!” She laughed as she extricated her hand and ran up the pathway. “Dinner will soon be prepared, and you two are in desperate need of some refreshments - not to mention a bath!” And they all strode into the stone hall laid with vines and flowers, set atop the hill that overlooked a large part of the land. The sun was just fading behind it when they all prepared for dinner.

It was a splendid affair, for the King was always an affair, and this was his first trip to Ithilien in the year, beginning his yearly examination of this part of the realm. Springs freshest offerings were laid up, herbs and lamb, tubers and bright fish, so juicy sweet. The gardens was laid with wooden benches while the banners flew in the breeze and the cool air floated with scent. Slowly, after a rousing evening, all the dignitaries wafted away to their chambers. But Eowyn, as yet untired walked among her gardens, the maze of all wild and tamed things, under the moonlight. The moon was no longer quite so brilliant as it had been in her darkest days in the closing bower of Edoras. Now it shone with a pretty haze, covering the trails with softness.

“My lord – what a pleasant surprise,” she said as she almost tripped over the King of all the free lands of Middle Earth in the Fourth Age, “I did not expect you to be resting. It seems you never do.”

”Ah, but the gardens of the guardians of Ithilien are worth admiring,” he responded lightly as he gazed into the moon filtered landscape, and a small freshet coursed by the bench where he sat. “So pretty,” he continued softly.

Eowyn sat down next to him, laughing quietly as a thorn caught her dress. “You must be careful not to stay here too long, lord, or the vines will cover you, and Gondor will have to find another king.”

Sitting quiet a while, they began to talk. Gently the conversation meandered, turning slowly to serious things, and as all conversations between those who have known each other long, to the past. About fear, about hopelessness, though they both held back. She did not speak of her longing, and he not of his. She found herself avoiding conversations of his Evenstar as her thoughts rolled back the clock. They strolled through the gardens, through the parts left alone to grow how they would. As he spoke of his early doubt, his face grew concerned with memories from long-ago, and she, too concerned, stopped. “Aragorn,” she said, wiping a piece of his hair away from his brow, “do not be so troubled. Those times are long ago, and you have found your hope and the fulfillment of all you seek. Do not let your heart be troubled by dreams of the past.”  
He turned to her, and perhaps it was the tricksy moon, casting shadows as well as light, or the sweet smell of closing flowers and air. Perhaps it was talk of the past, doubts long laid to rest, or the peaceful face of Eowyn, gazing up at Aragorn concerned and so lovely, that struck his heart. It was certainly his eyes and the stirring of her thoughts that struck her and took her breath away. Why did he gaze at her with such love? Certainly the wine, all the more potent for a winter’s keeping, had something to do with it.

But the rosebushes, if awakened from their nocturnal slumber and asked would have said it was fate, the Powers that revolve in their great axis, distant and cruel that melted on such a night and gave these two stars a glimpse at what another heaven might have looked like. It was their somewhat capricious gift to a girl who had tried to outride her fears, and to a great man to see what less greatness, but more peace, might have brought.

Long they stared, captivated by pools of blue and black. He brushed her hair, her golden white hair, with his hand. Almost as if against his will, he reached down to smell it, to touch her ear, her cheek, her lips. Entranced his lips followed his fingers’ course. Delight followed his every move, and he could not stop himself. Finally, both bodies hovering, they could almost feel each other’s very fibre.

And why did they not? Because Evenstar, and the Prince of Ithilien, and all the wide world kept them apart, and they could not. Ride, their hearts longed to out of this world into the one in which their lips could meet, as maybe they were supposed to. But they did not. And fate left it at that, though again those roses would say, not without a touch of regret.

With a look that was just meant for them, they waited, then walked away, up and away into the house of Eowyn and Faramir. Down she lay her body to her beloved, and Faramir accepted her form with a love that brooked no other choice than that which had been made. And away walked Aragorn, to sleep and forget.


	3. Ride Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief Aragorn/Eowyn ramblage. 4th Age. Mild angst, if any.

Ride, ride. So said her dreams, and in them she could still feel the wind, the burnt brown fields of Rohan and see the gold glinting, the black flags whipping in fierce joy of riding, of death and of life. Ah, she could feel her youth. But they were dreams, and in the end her body was laying itself down to rest. Faramir had down the same not a year earlier, and now hers was calling to join his. Her days were going down behind the mountains into shadow, but she was not afraid. No, not even in her dusky room where the clean smell of fall mixed with the fire and the honey in her tea that she was made to drink. She had said good-bye to all that she cared about. Eldarion had come to pay his visit, and so had the faithful wife of Eomer, her servants and helpers and friends. There was just one left she waited for.

His hair was just beginning to be overcome with gray, though its beautiful fronds of black still put up a valiant fight. Valiant. Aragorn was nothing if not this word.

He saw her face, peaceful still, but not quiet. No. He could see the wild mountains and valleys running in her eyes. He could always see into her eyes for they were as clear as the waters that ran in Ithilien. Her hair in this half-gloom glinted, and age had not distorted her face. Sitting down at her side, he carefully touched her hand. Hers, like his, was still strong as she smiled up at him.

“My lord Aragorn you have come. I have been waiting for you.”

He smiled sadly and said nothing.

“All that I care for I have made my peace with, and some already lie in waiting for me to join them. I held on because I wanted to say good-bye to you. Aragorn, there is nothing left that prevents me to speak of it.

‘All my life there was some part of me that longed to ride, to soar and lift me from all the mean things that crawl on this earth. I hope I have achieved some of this desire.”

“Most assuredly you have, my lady.”

“Good. But,” and here the voice faltered just a little, “I have never ridden with you. And I cannot deny, there is some small part always that wished it. That wished it was you and I on our fierce horses, chasing the sun. And I have waited to ask, did you ever have this wish?”

He was silent for a long, long time. Then his eyes looked down, and he touched her hair. “It is so my lady,” he whispered. Then, with the utmost tenderness he said softly, “and perhaps, when the day comes when I too may go, when I cross over into the next world, I will come, Lady Eowyn, and then maybe we can ride together.”

It was not long afterwards that she passed away, White Lady of Rohan, to the sweet smell of roses and rainwater, to flowers that still remained against the oncoming winter.


End file.
